


This Is My Body

by Croik



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Crueltide, Dubious Consent, M/M, Yuletide Treat, canon character death, references to cannibalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-25 22:02:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17129531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Croik/pseuds/Croik
Summary: When Harry Goodsir realized what he would have to do, a calm came over him.  It was the most peace he had felt in a long time.  And then Hickey walked in.  An alternate scene for episode 10.





	This Is My Body

**Author's Note:**

  * For [within_a_dream](https://archiveofourown.org/users/within_a_dream/gifts).



> I honestly wasn't sure if I should categorize this as non-con or dub-con, so I'm labeling it both just to be sure. I hope you enjoy it and happy holidays!

When Harry Goodsir realized what he would have to do, a calm came over him. It was the most peace he had felt in a long time.

He found himself a moment of privacy in the tent provided to him by Mr. Hickey. What a laugh, to suggest that such a man still held human compassion enough to think even a play-physician necessary for his merry band. The man must have known that the likes of naive Dr. Goodsir had little hope of keeping any of them alive now, cast out into the barren wilds as they were. But privacy it was, and Harry could not help but be grateful for that effort of civility.

He selected two bottles from his cache. Long had he pondered his choice, as a chemical of too great a strength would alert his captives to his intentions, and a mixture of frail potency would not have served his purpose. It would have to be odorless enough to be masked by the unseemly musk of an unwashed corpse, pale enough to leave no stain, and cause no symptoms violent enough to rouse suspicion. Thus he narrowed down his available supplies and poured the contents into a bowl. Medicine, once. No longer.

Harry wetted a rag in the fluids and touched it to his chest. He expected to flinch or shiver, if not for the cold bite of evaporation, then for the gruesome work he had begun. But his skin was too numbed by the ever-present arctic frost even for gooseflesh. As he bathed himself in his death, he found himself speculating on which parts of him ought to receive the most thorough attention. Starved as they all were, there could not be much meat upon him for a hearty meal. Perhaps the ribs, he thought, as he lifted his shirt to scrub his rag across them. Perhaps his sunken belly, his shriveled thighs and buttocks. He stepped out of his trousers and wondered, with a moment of sick fascination, if even the mad Mr. Hickey would be bold enough to feast on his genitals.

Harry grimaced then forbade himself from speculating further. His last moments on earth ought not to be spent in such macabre musings.

He had nearly finished with his unholy baptism when he heard footsteps approach, and in a panic he tucked both vials he had emptied back into their crate. A man came through the tent flaps a moment later, and though Harry did not look, he shuddered with recognition.

“My, what’s this?” said Cornelius Hickey himself. “Did I catch you at an inopportune moment, doctor?”

Harry could scarcely breathe. Though he had managed to stow the bottles, he still stood half naked at the tent’s center, dripping with poison. He swallowed what felt like an iceberg in his throat and bent down to retrieve his trousers. “You did,” he said once he had air in him enough to speak. “Though I imagine there won’t be  _ opportune  _ moments for any—”

He didn’t hear Hickey move—his heart was pounding too fiercely in his ears for that. Before he could draw his trousers fully on Hickey had taken him by the waist. His grip was firm but not aggressive, more reminder than assault, but Harry went as still as a mouse beneath a cat’s paw. 

“What are you up to, doctor?” rumbled Hickey.

“I’m only finishing an examination,” Harry replied before he could allow himself to think.

Hickey hummed, unconvinced. “An examination with your cock hanging out?”

“An examination of myself,” Harry said, though he did not expect Harry to believe him then, either. “So yes. Cock and all.”

Hickey snorted. Perhaps he found the doctor’s dull dryness out of character. More the better, as long as he did not find it suspicious. But then he tugged on Harry’s hip, moving one hand across his body and then the other as if turning a wheel as he gradually spun them face to face. Exactly where Harry least wanted to find himself. And then, to truly strike at the heart of his failure, Hickey reached down between Harry’s legs to grip his cock.

“Seems in order to me,” he said. 

Harry’s trousers dropped again to the ground, but he dared not move. With great reluctance he met Hickey’s eyes, and in that moment believed himself doomed. He was not a skilled deceiver, never had been, but Cornelius Hickey had made an art of it. Surely he would discover the plot, leaving Harry to a frightful dilemma: did he continue regardless, extinguish his own life for the pure relief of it? Or did he betray his shreds of humanity, snatch the razor from his tools and aim for Hickey’s throat? He shuddered at the imagining of what tortures might follow that gamble if it failed. This ending he had sought in lone dignity would be torn asunder.

Hickey felt him shudder, and it seemed to embolden him. He leaned closer, shoving his boots into the insides of Harry’s bare feet to spread them further. Harry allowed it. If he  _ was  _ going to attempt a reckless assassination, better that he not reveal any defiance until the pivotal moment. As soon as Hickey suspected, he would have to act, whether he had the will or not.

“You spoke to Crozier,” said Hickey. His breath reeked of raw meat, and Harry could not help but wonder what, or whom, he had fed on last. “What did you tell him?”

Harry swallowed and tasted his own heart. “I asked him not to fight,” he said. “It would be futile, and I would prefer not to have to tend his wounds again.”

“If he gets himself bloodied up again, he won’t be yours to worry about,” Hickey drawled. “No use wasting good supplies.”

Hickey moved his fingers slightly—not enough for it to be a squeeze or even a caress. Just a vague, testing gesture, fleeting along his groin. He, too, stayed very still. His eyes were half-lidded and searching. He was a boy teasing his boundaries.

“You didn’t come here to ask me about Crozier,” Harry said quietly. “Did you.”

“No,” said Hickey. “I didn’t.”

He tilted his head slightly, waiting. His hand move again, and Harry sucked a breath through his teeth. He understood, now, the apple being offered him. Hickey had failed to tempt him to his side with the promise of survival alone, and so was resorting to the second of mankind’s basest instincts. What a terrifying opportunity laid at his door. Harry clenched his hands around the edge of the table behind him, not trusting them. But his chin, he tipped. His lips, he parted.

It was only what he had planned to offer the madman anyway. Death on his flesh.

Hickey drank, oblivious, from that invitation. His mouth was on Harry’s in an instant; his lips were cold and craig-like, his tongue hot and soft. Their beards scraped and their mouths were sour; still Harry couldn’t identify what manner of blood was stuck between Hickey’s teeth. They were hunter and prey, and prey and hunter, and perhaps this was the way it was meant to end.

This was his chance to sever the head from the viper. Without Hickey, perhaps the others would come to their senses, return to the rest of the crew and seek mutual survival. It would certainly spare the captain a gruesome feast. He might even save himself. If all Harry had to do to secure a kinder fate for so many was this crude sacrifice, he would carry out his duty.

So Harry tugged his shirt open across his chest, as far as he could. He braced his palms to the table and tried to lift himself upon it, to make his body a more accessible canvas for Hickey’s ever-hungry mouth. It wouldn’t take too much, after all—a few drops sucked from lathered skin, and Hickey would begin to feel short of breath. For his relief he might even be convinced to drink the contents of a bottle of Harry’s choice. The thought of delivering that homicide so directly made Harry tremble, which drew from Hickey a quiet chuckle.

“Why, look at you,” he murmured, taking Harry by the hips to push him back hard into the table. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve been waiting for this all along.”

“I….” Harry tried to reply, but then Hickey bit his ear, and his wits scattered. He could only hold his breath as teeth scraped down the side of his throat, inching toward the first dashes of Strychnine. The closer Hickey drew, the faster Harry’s heart pounded, until he thought for sure that the other would feel it thumping between them. Inch by inch and beat by beat, his body drawing tight with the horror of what he was doing.

But Hickey didn’t go any lower. He hummed and grumbled as he sucked at Harry’s neck, teeth dragging across whiskers. His hand returned to Harry’s cock and stroked it harshly, digging in with his thumb to be sure Harry felt it. And God, did he. Harry’s breath stuttered back into rhythm as those rough fingers pulled heat down into his neglected extremities. Like everything in the north, it hurt, his body unused to the crude offer of pleasure. He gripped Hickey’s shoulders in desperate need for stability as his composure began to fracture.

Then Hickey kissed him on the mouth again, and this wasn’t the sacrifice he had planned for. The villain’s lips and fingers were deceptively sincere in their aggression, bringing him warmth he thought he would never experience again, while being so useless to his purpose. Harry kissed him back out of panic, whimpered in frustration. Arousal chipped away at his conviction and loosened guilt, tainting him, twisting him. This wasn’t what he wanted and he didn’t know what to do.

Hickey took hold of Harry’s collar and yanked, ripping the fabric open further down his chest. It sent a fresh shudder through Harry as he thought this, this was it—finally the assassination would be carried out. He ought to have pushed at Hickey’s shoulders, arched his back, encouraged him. It’s what Hickey would have done if their positions were reversed. But Harry could only quake, his fingers tight in Hickey’s shirt, his knuckles aching. 

Hickey pulled back. He dragged Harry off the table, and for a heartbeat Harry was convinced again that he had discovered the plot, and there would be a knife in his throat before long. But then Hickey spun him about and shoved, forcing Harry’s chest to the table. He ground his hips against Harry’s bare backside; Harry grimaced as the table jabbed splinters into his chest and abdomen. Dread and shame strangled the protests welling up from his throat. There was nothing to be gained now—his efforts had been thwarted, only humiliation and pain to follow. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to struggle. A bottle was within reach, easy enough to shatter into a weapon, but all he could do was clench his fists against the table. Had he always been so cowardly, his dignity so frail? 

“Be good for me,” Hickey purred, rubbing again against Harry’s ass. But his skin was cold and his cock flaccid, and his rumblings of taunting pleasure turned bitter. He took a fistful of Harry’s hair and yanked hard enough that a few strands came off in his fingers—Harry flinched and could not suppress a whimper. His reaction spurred Hickey on, as he dug his fingers hard into Harry’s waist, but none of his bucking and grinding did anything for his obvious lack of erection, and with a hissed curse he abruptly backed off.

Harry didn’t dare feel any relief. He waited, bracing himself for the moment Hickey took out his inadequacy on him through some other means. But by the time he risked a glance behind him, Hickey had already tied his pants closed again. His expression was twisted in an embarrassed grimace, which he quickly did away with upon realizing he was being observed.

“Sorry, doctor,” Hickey said, faking indifference. “But it’ll have to wait for a warmer climate.”

Harry gulped, his elbows quaking as he pushed himself upright once more. “Mr. Hickey—” he started to say, but Hickey quickly turned, uninterested, and shoved his way out of the tent.

Harry drew his pants back on. He tucked in his shirt, buttoned his vest over it. He had finished tying his shoes before his numbness wore away, and he had to cover his mouth with both hands to quiet a sob. 

This place was cold, and lethal, and full of wonder. It was not a place for men. Men like them, it tore open, it exposed. It turned their insides out. Whatever more lay in him, he could not bare to know. Better that his corpse bleach on the ice.

Harry took a deep breath to compose himself. He straightened his back, took the time he needed to regain the courage that had brought him so far already. Then at last, he reached for the bottle.

  
  



End file.
